The Looking Glass
by Rachelea
Summary: There's a castle, a key, and a treasure. A world where a few things need redefining. And Andrea, who's just another Muggle-born in a generation one step from lost. Somehow this world is a strange reflection of the one she left behind. (Post-HP, written because I was curious about the effects of war on the next generation. Lots of familiar faces as the story progresses.)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This story isn't all sunshine and butterflies. It's about family, and war, and finding friends and enemies where you least expect to. It's also an adventure, with some eventual romance thrown in. As I don't usually write OCs, comments and critiques are both appreciated. There will be dark themes, but I keep it PG.**

**Andrea is an original character. It might be a while before you start to recognize some familiar faces, but I think it will be worth it when you do.**

* * *

_The dream is recurring._

_ There's a river, or something like it, particles already swirling into the air by the time you fall asleep—or is it awake? The moment your feet hit solid ground you want to lift off again, but you can't remember how. The next best thing is to hold a steady gaze, take in the surroundings, let nothing else slip away. The bank crumbles into nothing mere feet from your own, but unconsciously you stride forward. You're staring through the mist for that rarest, briefest prize—a glimpse of the other side. _

_Something's there. Something you mistrust and long for all at once. It's the familiar voice breathing promises in your ear, singing at the edge of memory._

_One day you'll step off the edge to find it._

* * *

I could have prepared her for this.

The accusation plays on repeat, an endless litany in my head. I shove away the thought; tell myself it wouldn't have helped. It really wouldn't have. Better to bully my brain into enjoying the sights; there's plenty to see. But I'm all too aware that alongside me Mother is wide-eyed and tense and I'm afraid too, scared she'll retreat into herself in that way I've never understood.

We talked over everything, again and again. But I could have done so much more. I could have prepared her. Too late now.

Mother never hoped for anything more than the impossible. She's never said it aloud, exactly, but it's easy to see she wanted everything in our shared life to stay the same, to move at more or less the old pace. As though we've ever enjoyed the luxury of _normal_. So I kept my silence until the letter came, and she didn't agree to my departure until there was no choice.

Now she's on edge and I can't blame her. If King's Cross was bustling and noisy, Platform 9 and ¾ is a sensory overload, an explosion of color and steam and firecrackers and the displeased yowls of cats winding underfoot. Voices, rising and falling in a vaguely pleasing disharmony: shrill, youthful—confident, or what passes for it. Trepidation that feeds off adrenaline, swirling higher until it hits the crescendo of wild excitement. Laughter. Along one side of the platform, a blinding wall of scarlet. On the other, the press of people. Oh, and somewhere in between, the laws of physics torn apart and redefined before our eyes.

There are more things in heaven and in earth, Mother, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. I probably should've warned you.

Far too late now. Magic sets many things in motion. I am merely one of them.

Somewhere overhead a whistle blows, and the mass of milling mages abandons its inertia and surges forward. My hasty goodbye, caught away by the crowd and the hoots of caged owls, isn't anything like enough. So I write my first letter before the train stops. I tell her the little things: the prefects rushing through the corridors, the fluorescent gecko in the next compartment, the hunched-shoulder shyness of the other first-years. I tell her about the strange taste in the air: a tinge of nutmeg and fir, and something indefinable. I try to capture it in the words Mum would use, a vivid eddy of articulated feelings, but only succeeding in offering my own: _magic, _whatever else it is, is half stimulation, and half the unfulfilled thirst for it. I leave out the giant escaped scorpion, exploding card games, and the unsettling awareness that some twisted soul invented pickled-egg jelly beans.

I also don't mention that this is the best day of my life.

Faintly pleased with myself regarding the lack of smudges—first time using quill and ink—I lean back against soft leather to scan the parchment. It doesn't take long for the satisfaction to evaporate. Reading over the words they seem trite, impersonal—in other words, _me_—but I know Mother will read it and see all the things I didn't say. Then she'll laugh a little, cry, and curl up on the sofa with a book. We all have our coping mechanisms. She got through Shakespeare, Austen and a good part of Dickens that way.

I'll trust Uncle John to keep an eye on her.

The sky is a deep navy blue when we pull in to the station, but the distantly lit castle is all the more brilliant for that. There's something magnetic about it, even from this distance, as though this single, grandiose edifice can somehow sweep away eleven years of dust and memories condensed into an old London flat. The giant of a man who meets us is twelve times my size, sports a wild brown beard shot through with grey, and appears to be clothed in the skins of at least half a dozen grizzly bears. But there are also smile lines in his enormous face, which I can just make out in the flickering lights of the station. There is good humor, too, in the booming voice with which he introduces himself.

Hagrid shepherds us down the bank and into a waiting fleet of small rowboats and steps into one himself. I watch curiously to see how the tiny vessel bears his weight, but it is as steady as though set into solid concrete. As soon as he settles into the front vessel we take off at a smooth glide, although no one is rowing and there's no visible current. The oars move themselves and a light slap echoes over the lake, softer cousin to the shattering chime of icicles Mum and I take turns breaking off the eaves in winter. The recollection falls strangely upon my mind, entirely at odds with the mildness of the late summer air—early autumn, actually, but Britain is deviating from its usual habits this year.

I tear my gaze from the star-strewn sky to peer into rippling depths of black water. Mysterious, fathomless, quite possibly full of creatures that shouldn't exist and that would quite happily snap off any appendage I care to trail in the water... _thrilling, _in other words. Away from Mother, I'm free to savor the slow and unfamiliar burn of happiness flooding through me.

Ahead lie answers, freedom, magic. As far as I'm concerned those words mean the same thing.

As we draw closer to the castle, light from the enormous arching windows plays across our faces and I'm able to catch a glimpse of those I'm sharing a boat with. A ginger-haired boy and a girl, whispering behind me. Twins, perhaps. No, cousins. Next to me a tiny girl with dark, curling hair, and mischievous brown eyes. She catches my eye and gives me a wink. Caught off my guard, I return only a small smile.

There's the grind of wooden keels on sand as the boats lurch onto the gravelly shoreline. One tall, dark-haired boy is on shore even before Hagrid's shout booms out, the force of his leap threatening to send his boatmates pitching back onto the glassy lake. The boy grins, running a hand through his already tousled hair as though expecting applause.

"All righ', everyone out!" We follow the groundskeeper up a sweeping lawn to the castle. A nearly-full moon overhead throws serene light on the scene and I glance around, taking in as much as possible. The sloping path to the castle obscures most of the view to the left and right, but I catch a dark smudge off to one side. At the same time my ears pick up a rustle of wind through treetops. A forest!

_Definitely not in London anymore…_

Probably in Scotland, to judge from the speed and direction of the train. My schoolbooks were fairly reticent about Hogwarts' location, but—

A howl rings out in the distance, and I shudder with delight as I mount the granite steps. Hagrid catches my eye, misreading the gesture. The gamekeeper has already paused at the top of the great flight of stairs to the entranceway of the castle, massive hand resting on the great bronze door knocker.

"Nothin' in the forest ter be afraid of," he says comfortingly, with a pat on the shoulder that nearly knocks me over. "'Least, not 'til yer get too close…"

Most of the first-years huddle a little closer at these words, but someone behind me snickers and mutters something that I don't make out. The culprit is the dark-haired boy with the lopsided smile, standing at my elbow. Whatever the remark, it sends the red-haired duo into hysterics, and he looks rather pleased with himself. None of them are worth the oxygen it would take to process a reply, so I merely rub my bruised shoulder and give Hagrid a wry smile.

I pause on the massive smooth-edged stone steps to observe as my classmates-to-be file inside. It's so easy to tell who is who—to those with magical siblings and parents, the ancient castle is a well-worn storybook. They nudge each other, gesture up staircases, exchange knowing giggles as flashes of white appear at random from solid stone, disappearing the moment we stop to get a closer look. These were the chief noisemakers at Kings Cross, I recognize now—the ones putting on façades for parents and friends, concealing rising trepidation behind boisterous excitement. Somehow, I don't doubt the dark-haired boy and his friends are among them.

In a couple of hours the castle will already feel like home to them. They'll be the old friends swapping tales beside the fireplace, while those sitting timidly on the sidelines venture remarks about football and Disney channel. Most of the Muggle-borns aren't bothering to hide their disquiet…or, like me, they're still wrapped in starry-night wonder. A few shoulder their cloaks more tightly around themselves and stare up at the vaulted crystal windows high overhead. I brush my fingers against a granite archway and shiver with fierce joy.

Hogwarts is more than a school, I sense already. It's more than a secret club. It's something exclusive…but not in the way my life with Mum was. This is isolation with a purpose. This is…history. This _means_ something. This place has secrets. And I made it.

The entrance hall empties to the left into an enormous dining chamber, where a rising murmur of voices indicates that the majority of the students from the train are already gathered. I follow my classmates inside.

For a moment we're all the same. Muggle- and wizard-born alike crane their necks in disbelief, gaping upward to where the Hall simply empties into the sky. A blonde boy to my left pokes the winking girl in the side, making a comment. She shakes her curly head and mouths something back. Another pair of purebloods, I think vaguely, without dropping my gaze—I'm entranced by the floating candles, wondering how permanent the spell is, how you lift something into the air and make it stay there.

I let my eyes drop from the candles to the bright banners draped across the walls. An eagle, a badger, a lion, and a snake—no, a serpent. The gleaming eyes and languid curve of the deep green body proscribe the more commonplace appellation. The school Houses. This is one bit of information that I do possess—though even lacking it, there would be no difficulty in making the connection with the four enormous wooden tables stretching the length of the room.

At the front of the hall, above the long staff table, a quadripartite crest emblazoned with a large 'H' combines the four mascots in an uneasy union. My eyes drift downward as a stately witch at a golden podium clears her throat. Swathed in magnificent emerald robes, the headmistress calmly makes herself heard above the din of teenagers. I remember her name and the strength of her handshake. At nearly eighty years old Minerva McGonagall still holds herself like a warrior.

Silence falls as McGonagall's austere voice echoes through the hall despite the lack of a microphone. A standard but sincerely cordial greeting. The gathered students shift excitedly, and it crosses my mind to wonder if end-of-holidays gloom even exists here.

Doubtful.

McGonagall gestures, and a young witch with blonde highlights and a breezy smile enters the room, carrying an unidentifiable something, and accompanied by an arthritic cat. Seconds later the lump in her arms resolves itself into a stool and a battered hat, which she sets on the stand directly in front of the golden podium. Inside the slightly overlong sleeve of my robe, my nails bite into my palms. McGonagall explained all of this. But here's the bit I'm unsure about—how can a hat, even a magical hat, _possibly_ decide for me where I belong? What does it matter if the thing reads minds? Some days I can barely read my own mind.

A name is announced. Like the inadvertent shudder of an overworked muscle, the nervous crowd contracts slightly as the first of our number, blonde and slight, approaches the hat.

Pause.

I almost stumble back as the hat twitches open its brim and bellows a name. It took barely five seconds.

"_Hufflepuff!"_

Those few seconds were more than sufficient to correct my self-denial. It _does_ matter. A lot. Minds are private for a reason. I keep lots of stuff in mine.

The next one takes longer. Brunette. Protruding chin. Thirty seconds.

_"Gryffindor!"_

The list goes on. I pay close attention at first, scrutinizing my peers, trying to guess where they'll end up. My nails are digging harder now, and I make a concentrated effort to unclench my fist.

Name.

Shout.

Applause.

The hat takes its time with some students. It perches on the head of a dark-eyed girl for almost two minutes before declaring her a Ravenclaw.

None of this feels real.

The list is alphabetized. Deciding that fretting will have absolutely no effect on my own Sorting, I allow my attention to wander over the hall. Each of the four segregated tables erupt with sound when a student joins their number.

What will my House be?

"Hatfield, Laura!"

I snap back to the front. If we're getting into the H's, it's time to pay attention.

The hall holds its breath.

_"Slytherin!"_

My name is called when two-thirds of my classmates are still waiting to be sorted. They part before me, a silent Red Sea, and offer shy smiles as I step forward to perch on the stool. I catch a glimpse of my scarlet-streaked palm just before the hat slips over my eyes. I clench my fist tightly. There's more silence inside.

I almost jump when the voice sounds in my head.

_Well, now. _

Silence.

I raise my eyebrows. Somewhere in the back of my head Mother is nattering on about the importance of first impressions. Despite what she says, I actually _am_ capable of dredging up some charm when meeting a stranger. But this stranger can read my mind, so all bets are off. In seconds this thing will know my _true_ nature, whatever that means.

It doesn't take long for my true nature to reveal itself.

"Thanks. I was hoping for something a little more…conclusive."

A throaty chuckle.

_Another tricky one. I do adore the tricky ones. _

"I imagine that most people are enigmas in their own heads," I think at it irritably. "Even if they're dull in reality. I know the general Founders' criteria, but what's the basis of _your_ categorization? Self-image?"

The chuckle sounds again—next to my ear? Inside my head?

_Oh no, little one. Much deeper than that._

My pulse quickens. It's highly uncomfortable, _thinking_ with the knowledge that this ratty bit of patched leather, I mean, obviously astute magical artifact, is sifting through my head. _Deeper. W_hat does that mean? _Tricky._ Does the hat say that to every student? Or do I simply not belong here, either?

And yet, why should I belong to a certain House? What's their grounds for characterization? Personality is inherently multidimensional. _Can_ you just sum a person up like that?

Uninvited memories from primary school flash through my mind. Okay, maybe some people…

I retreat into my head, gathering what I remember of the four Houses. The Sorting Hat follows along and I picture it nodding sagely.

_Ravenclaw. Of course, you would venture there first. You have a mind Rowena herself would admire, but there's something else…quite intriguing…_

It waffles on in that vein for a minute. I file the words away, wishing I'd drilled McGonagall a little more closely when I had the chance.

_Gryffindor. Where dwell the brave at heart. You have half a mind to try your luck there, don't you? I daresay you inherited your father's daring as well as his impatience with stupidity. _

Rage explodes like white fire in my mind. I quench the blaze purely out of habit, stiffening my arm against the urge to rip the rag of leather off my head. How can it know about my father? That's a door I keep firmly locked.

The hat meanders on, feigning oblivion.

_But then there's your mother, so lost in your new world. You get just as much of your courage from her, you know. And something that comes less naturally. _

_Somehow, you really care._

"…about what?"

_Other people. There's nothing in your head to say that love is worth the effort you put into it._

I stiffen again, gripping the edge of the stool. "What are you—of course I _care_ about people." There is nothing wrong with me.

_Humanitarian sensibilities that have very little to do with what you are. Though they may have everything to do with what you become. I don't read the future, Annie, I read potential. Humans forge their own characters. Did you know that Sorting used to occur after the second year at Hogwarts? By thirteen, character is more firmly set. And the Founders had had the chance to observe the survivors. _

_I, on the other hand—all I have are building blocks. You're still so young. You love, I think. With time, you might love deeply. But you had to teach yourself, didn't you?_

Anger is mounting again at the back of my skull.

"Get _out of my head."_

_Take a look at your options, Andrea. Where do you belong?_

"Right, because I have a choice."

_Oh, but you do. _The voice is silky as ice, settling into the crevices of my brain as though to smooth and conceal, but the effect is the opposite. I want to scream, hurl it away, fling it off as easily as it lifts the thoughts from my head. I settle for gritting my teeth.

"So we've already established that I'm a freak."

The hat chuckles.

So I can choose. There's not much question about what.

"Ravenclaw."

_I know you, Annie. You don't love knowledge for its own sake. You could never bear the dull brashness of ordinary thinking. Nor do your loyalties extend to the conventionalities Gryffindors thrive on. _

I reel. This is my '_choice'_?

"If you want _unconventional_, I'm quite capable of being my own House."

_We both know that's not quite true. There's Hufflepuff—_

"Not an option. Hufflepuffs are distinguished mainly by their mediocrity. Or, if you will, their _humanitarian sensibilities_."

_Can you tell the difference?_

I grit my teeth again.

"I can tell you that I have no intention of leading a life free of expectation. Or of building it around shattering a stereotype of incompetence. Hufflepuff… does not apply to me."

There is no other way to put it, and the hat doesn't argue. It does go quiet for a moment before resuming, more ponderous than before.

_Expectations can transform you._

"I didn't say I'd conform to them."

Another chuckle. _Have we arrived at last?_

"Where's that?"

_ The burning ambition that's all your own. _

"Are we still doing this? I thought the psychoanalysis was finished."

_You certainly would do well in Slytherin._

My heart speeds up.

"Not Slytherin. Take your pick of the others if you won't take mine, but not Slytherin."

_What do you want?_

"Not Slytherin."

_What do you want, Andrea?_

The words are so cliché, I hate them for being true.

"I want to make a difference. I want…to be…different."

I grip the worn edge of the stool. The flames continue their merry crackling, but somehow my mind is frozen over, crystallized, and I can't remember how to feel warmth. The hat lifts from my head but the murmur of gathered voices is muted, the hall's clashing colors a swirling fragment of dream that's sinking away and leaving me behind.

But I'm still here, right? Because somewhere above a thousand blank faces I can still hear the shout reverberating through the hall.

_"Slytherin!" _

Vaguely I wonder if sound waves, like candlesticks, hang in the air forever.

And then the room erupts into applause.

* * *

It's not until I sit down among my new housemates that I see him. I scanned the staff table earlier—the familiar face must have been hidden behind the bulk that is Professor Hagrid. He catches my eye, gives a wave and a wink.

Anger floods my stomach for the second time tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

If it weren't for the growing weight on my mind, maybe the momentary rush of pleasure at seeing his face would have lingered. The food is glorious, but I have no appetite. I make it through the rest of dinner, nibbling at a lemon tart and exchanging stories and small talk with my new family.

Speaking of.

"Hello, Uncle John."

He hides his surprise well.

"Annie." With a sigh. "Office-breaking already?"

"Yep."

"I should be glad you didn't start with the headmistress'. I don't suppose this could wait until tomorrow?"

I swing my legs off the sofa's arm but don't sit up.

"Nope."

"Can we just call my presence here a happy coincidence?"

This doesn't deserve a reply, and John doesn't expect one. He sighs again. "In theory, you could be pleased that your favorite uncle is teaching at your new school."

One small, treacherous part of me _is_ pleased. I quash it mercilessly, fixing him with a glare.

"My only uncle."

"Not your…"

"My only uncle who openly acknowledges my existence," I amend. "You know, when he's not too _preoccupied_."

John unfastens his dusty traveling cloak with a sigh and drapes it on the back of an armchair. After a moment he steps forward and drops into the chair himself.

"Thanks for making up the fire."

I shrug.

"Welcome."

"Magic?"

I wave a hand at the mantle, a gesture that says, _do_ _you see any matches?_

Uncle John attempts a smile. "I always said you'd be top of your class."

Neither of us speaks for moment, both staring into the scarlet-orange blaze. The flames send shadows flickering across the stone walls but don't penetrate the darkness in the corners of the room, where a couple of large trunks wait to be unpacked. I want to either hug him or hurl something at his head. I break silence before I start leaning toward the latter.

"What do you teach?"

"Defense Against the Dark Arts."

Of course. Mum always said he and Dad would have gotten on great.

Not thinking about Dad.

"I'm looking forward to it."

"I'm glad."

There's a short silence again. I'm not really sure what to say. Of course it's all quite clear, now—the sudden 'business' trips, the lack of close friends nearby, all the little things that didn't add up over the years. I've never even been inside his house; no doubt it's full of unicorn horns and dragon skin sofas or whatever else wizards decorate with.

What it doesn't explain is how shabby and tired he looks. Uncle John has never been the picture of health, but now the circles under his eyes, more pronounced in the firelight, make him appear positively ill.

It also doesn't explain how little of him I've seen over the past year.

"Where've you been?"

"Business. I'm always busy at summer's end, Annie, you know that. Before start of term, I work very closely with the Auror department—"

"Couldn't be bothered to come by when Mother was losing her mind?"

An exaggeration, we both know. Probably. He doesn't bother to point it out.

Uncle sighs.

"It isn't easy on your mother, is it? What you can do."

I laugh. The sound grates against my ears.

"What _we_ can do," John corrects.

"It's not just _Mother_, Uncle John." My voice is rising, and I let it because the alternative is dropping to a hiss. "I want to know why I spent the last year terrified I was going out of my mind. Strange things happening to a..._normal_ family is unsettling. But you know we've received threats."

"A long time ago."

"_She still remembers!_ _You could have helped!_"

He wilts a little. "Annie…I wanted to come by. I wanted so badly to put your minds at rest concerning the magical world. But there was the fact of my own deception. With you gone, she needs a shred of normalcy, a shoulder to cry on. Mary and I will still be there for her."

I open my mouth, but he plows on.

"And before you ask—and I know this is what really bothers you—I couldn't have helped with the magic. Surely you realize I couldn't have told you what I was, Annie. Not before the headmistress' visit. There are laws. Several of which," he raises his voice slightly, "proscribe instructing an underage witch in magic. Particularly in a Muggle setting."

I let out a breath and look away.

"I learned, anyway."

"I knew you would."

Both our heads snap toward the fireplace as a pocket of sap overheats and explodes with a violent _pop_. The logs settle as indigo flames shoot upwards. The wood isn't normal either, then. Nothing here is.

"You were different," I say distantly, watching the flickering fade back to orange. Not all of the smoke from the minor explosion makes it up the chimney, and something about the stuffy atmosphere is making my head feel heavy. I lever myself up straight in an attempt to clear it. "There was always something different about you. No explanation."

John nods, waving his wand. I watch the cloud condense and soar up the chimney.

"Mother said it was just that you liked us…"

John tilts his head sharply. "Did she?"

"No," I lie, wishing I could swallow my words.

John looks at me and back into the fire and sighs, all regret and untidy gray hair. His face lights up in surprise when I embrace him. Mum always said that Uncle John's smile could tame a caged tiger. The tiger in question was generally me, beginning when I was small and woke screaming almost nightly.

No, it wasn't just that he liked us. And that wasn't why I liked him, either. John—with his mysterious scars, and the graying blonde hair that always needed cutting, and his uncanny ability to turn up whenever he was most needed—he showed me that it was okay to be different. That different can be good. You hear that message a lot, but you don't often see it demonstrated. Or believed in. I love to read nearly as much as Mother does, but she always says I don't trust the words, and it's perfectly true.

My face stays buried in his shoulder for a moment. I'm still angry, still slightly in shock to find an old family friend here, and still too exhausted to work out whether I forgive him, so I turn toward the door, thinking I'll leave it for another day.

And then I turn back, one foot in the corridor. Uncle John rose when I did and walked to his desk. He's pouring boiling water from his wand into a kettle, rummaging in a drawer for tea leaves, and looks up when I clear my throat.

"I'm glad you're here, Uncle John."

There's the smile again, the familiar hazel gaze. "And I'm more than happy you're here with me."

I'm nearly outside the door again when he adds, "By the way, it's Professor Lupin here. Just so you know."

A different name in each world. Maybe it's a wizard thing.

"Good night, Professor."

I've stepped into the carpeted maroon corridor and shut the door before realizing I have no idea where my common room is. I can't bring myself to reenter Uncle John's office. So instead I light my wand and make my way back to the entrance hall. The talking portraits can help, I suppose. They were helpful enough with John's office…

An hour after dinner, the place is nearly empty. The last few candles have descended to hover just above the entranceway, still lit, and beneath them Professor McGonagall is engaged in conversation with a…centaur.

I muffle a gasp and turn to walk away, but the sound of my footsteps echoes on stone. I curse under my breath. McGonagall's voice rings out.

"Is someone there? Do you need something?"

Now I'll look a complete prat; the girl who couldn't get through the first night of term without a chat with the headmistress. I grit my teeth and turn back to the hall.

"Sorry, Professor. I'm just wondering where my common room is—I met up with an old friend after dinner, and missed the memo. Stupid of me." I blush convincingly.

"Quite all right, Miss—?"

"Andrea." I rarely give my surname.

"Andrea. You were one of those I visited personally. London, wasn't it? How is your mother?"

"Fine, thank you," I get out.

"I hope you both enjoyed Flourish and Blotts?" I'm astounded to see the fleeting ghost of a smile in McGongall's expression. Evidently she recollects the overstuffed bookshelves lining our tiny flat.

"We did," I lie. Mother has never set foot in Diagon Alley.

"The transition can be difficult for non-magical parents. Well, I certainly understand your desire to catch up with an old acquaintance after the holidays. I do, however, advise against wandering the corridors at night. It's against the rules at best, and lethal at worst. Lights out is at ten." The piercing gray of the headmistress' eyes mirrors the sudden steel in her voice, no doubt triggered by fond memories of old students. I hope she's joking about the lethal part.

"Understood."

The centaur, who has stood listening for the last few moments in polite silence, now steps forward into the light streaming from the doorway. The strike of hooves on stone echoes through the Hall. I try not to stare.

He extends a slightly furry hand. I take it. "Professor Firenze, Divination. I'm pleased to meet you, Andrea."

I look up. He's beautiful. I try not to stare.

"Pleased to meet you too, Professor."

"Your House?" he prompts.

I drop my eyes, a second too quickly this time. "Slytherin."

"Down three floors. Take the corridor to your left and the second passage on the right. Your dormitory will be on the first level of the leftmost staircase leading from the common room," McGonagall tells me. "Password's 'Bezoar'. Staircases rotate in nine minutes, so don't linger."

"Thank you, Professor."

"Best of luck with your first year, Andrea," she calls after me.

I walk a little faster to hide my embarrassment.

"Good night."

* * *

My common room, it transpires, is in the dungeons. The dungeons.

Perhaps the stupid hat was trying to tell me something.

It's quiet, mostly deserted. Most people are in bed by now, or still sorting out their belongings. I make my way to the first year girls' dormitory and stop short as a slight lapping sound echoes around the dark room. I expect to be stuck next to the door, but the bed next to the window at the far end of the room is the only one unoccupied. I don't understand why until I'm nearly touching the dark glass. Then I leap backward as something pale flashes by.

The lake.

I'm sleeping three feet from the _lake._ Complete with sharks, kelpies and a giant squid, if the rumors are to be believed.

For some idiotic reason I snort with laughter. I guess I got my wish to see into its black depths. No doubt I'll be staring into them in my dreams.

The lights are out, the other girls breathing deeply, evenly. I would expect insomnia and tears the first night in a new place, but they must be as exhausted as I. And this is, after all, Hogwarts. The long-awaited place of learning and friendship and learning-how-to-jinx-your-little-brother-into-a-tea-cozy-if-he-annoys-you. No wonder we all feel at home.

Most of us. One of them is faking sleep. There's a slight catch in her breathing.

I shake my head and let it pass, pulling closed the curtains around my bed. It's none of my business, and frankly I'm too worn out to care. I undress in darkness and crawl between the sheets.

Insomnia? Tears, maybe? Thoughts of Mother and London and what on earth will she do without me and John?

I'm asleep in moments.


	3. Chapter 3

Transfiguration, Potions, Herbology with the Ravenclaws, and double DADA with the Gryffindors.

Who decided _that_ was a good idea? Aren't we supposed to hate one other?

It sounds exhausting, hating Gryffindors. I doubt I'll be able to muster up the energy. Anyway, we're here to learn magic at a magical school. I wouldn't care if we had Defense Against the Dark Arts with the Whomping Willow.

I fell asleep easily, but the darkness was the blind, suffocating kind. The Sorting Hat whispered in my ear all night long.

This morning I catch the eye of a dark-haired girl across the dormitory. Although she sat beside me on the trip across the lake, Violet and I didn't have a chance to speak at dinner, so our conversation begins with boring pleasantries. Vi seems all right. She's pureblood, or what passes for it, with about eight older brothers, and every one of them is in Ravenclaw. I listen to her talk, for the most part. Mother and I don't exactly have a rule about sharing information, but we're pretty private, and I'm protective of her. And I learned early on that it wasn't a good idea to spread my family name.

By breakfast Violet and I have progressed to the traditional scrutiny of our schedules—as though first-year Slytherins don't have every class together—and I've progressed toward making my first real friend.

We spend the rest of the meal eavesdropping on clearly exaggerated tales from older students, soliloquizing on everything from potions gone wrong to particularly bloody Quidditch tournaments. Violet drinks it in, occasionally voicing comparisons to her brothers' Hogwarts stories. I'm sipping idly at my orange juice, half-listening and letting the voices wash over me when the first rustle from above joins the entwining chatter in the Hall. A moment later there's a proper breeze, and I raise my head.

Hundreds of owls stream through the windows overhead. Tawny, brown, black, here and there a speck of grey or white. As I watch, the birds swirl out of formation and downwards, dropping letters and packages into the laps of students.

I don't realize there's a grin stretched across my face until I drop my gaze to see Violet regarding me with amusement.

"What?"

"Haven't you ever seen an owl before?"

I laugh. "Of course"_—although I didn't exactly expect a horde of them to deliver the morning mail—_and struggle for a moment to express the sense of wonder that's begun to rekindle after the events of last night. "It's just…we're _here_. At Hogwarts."

Vi matches my grin. I stuff a final forkful of eggs into my mouth and leap to my feet. "Come on."

Now she laughs. "To Transfiguration? We'll be twenty minutes early at _least_…"

Transfiguration. The Astronomy Tower. The Forbidden Forest. I hardly care which.

"What part of 'magical castle' are you missing? Come _on!_"

As we start up the curving, maroon-carpeted steps, I take a moment to wonder why Violet mocked my reaction to the mail. And why, for a split second, I felt defensive.

It wasn't a lie, that I've seen an owl. There was the one that delivered my Hogwarts letter. But surely I'm not the only first-year surprised by the sudden and unorthodox appearance of the mail delivery system? Surely there are more efficient methods.

Violet is chattering on. I transfer my gaze back up the staircase and wonder about Mum's views on pet owls.

* * *

Classes are a haze of delight, though at first my wand feels slightly unnatural in my hand. Despite my incessant protests, Mother put off the trip to Diagon Alley until two weeks before term started, by which point I was exasperated enough to go by myself. I've had little opportunity to practice with the wand. But I have to admit it brings control and focus to my magic. This is a welcome change from the past few months, so I throw myself into classes with enthusiasm—magical homework, after all, can hardly be called homework.

Gary and Scorpio still complain, however. Incessantly. I catch a bit of their conversation as Vi and I drop our books onto a corner table in the common room.

"_Elementary Wand Movements,_ can you believe it, Father taught me this when I was seven…"

"_Spellcasting for Beginners._ How is reading going to help us do magic?"

"It's the same rubbish for everyone. There should be a slow class for Muggle-borns."

I finger my wand, but I don't know any curses yet. That will have to be remedied soon.

Violet catches the movement and twists her wand through her short hair. "What's yours?"

"Sorry?"

She disentangles the wand from her curls and holds it out. "Dragon heartstring and black cherry. What's yours? Didn't Ollivander tell you?"

"Oh—yes. Erm, phoenix feather and yew."

"_What?"_

I shift uncomfortably. "That's what he said."

Vi gives a short laugh, the way she did at breakfast, and I feel a distinct twinge of discomfort. "I'm surprised you bought it, Annie…surprised he _made_ it."

"It's old, I think. He pulled it from the back—" After I stood in front of the dusty counter for sixty minutes, that is, wrist threatening tendonitis as I conducted imaginary music with every wand in the shop.

I let a flicker of irritation show.

"What does that matter? It chose me."

"I dunno…" Violet says slowly, then grins. "Bit of an unlucky combination, though, don't you think? Maybe that's why you're in Slytherin."

A couple of third years at the next table glance over uneasily. Unlike me, they seem to get the joke. I sink onto a hardwood chair. "S'pose so. How about you?"

At mealtimes Violet always waves cheerily at a couple of older boys who share her dark curls and round face. Most of the time they continue chatting with their blue-scarved friends and studiously ignore their little sister, not that she seems to care. I wonder if it's usual for siblings to be Sorted into different houses.

"Oh… my family's been in Ravenclaw for ages. I always was the black sheep." She flashes a wicked smile, which for some reason makes me feel better.

"Doesn't it…bother you?"

"What?"

I choose my words carefully. "Being different."

Vi rolls her eyes. "Better than _boring_. Dad works in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Mum's a historian, she's been busy for ages writing some book called _War Among Wizards_. I, however, have better things to do than stick my nose in a stack of parchment all day." Her face brightens. "C'mon."

Casting a slightly regretful glance at my spellbooks, I allow myself to be dragged out the door.


	4. Chapter 4

Several hours later, it's probably past lights out, _definitely_ past dinnertime, and we're still exploring. Lost, more like. I need a new watch; for some reason mine's stopped working.

"Vi." My voice emerges tired and exasperated. "If we haven't gone over every foot of this castle by now, I'm a unicorn."

Violet has her wand out, pointing at the lock on a particularly heavy-looking and certainly off-limits wooden door.

"I said _Alohamora_, you stupid thing…"

She taps her wand tip on the lock and pouts, in the apparent hope that glaring will prove a more reliable medium than Latin incantation.

"_Violet_. I'm all for adhering to the spirit of adventure, but we've got Charms first thing in the morning, and any moment now Branwen or her evil cat is going to—"

"Why won't this stupid spell…"

"For heaven's sake." I shove her aside and place my palm against the lock, concentrating. I taught myself this trick first thing last winter, although at the time I was more concerned with locking doors than opening them. In a moment the tumblers slide into place with a satisfying click. I step back, brushing my hair from my face. "There you go."

The look Violet gives me is uneasy. I'm starting to get nervous when she does that. She pushes on the door, and it gives.

"How did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Unlock it…without a wand."

I stare back, expressionless. "Maybe you should try doors _before_ resorting to _Alohamora_."

After a couple moments her face creases into its customary grin and she shakes her head. "One day, Annie, I'm gonna figure out all your secrets."

"I can't imagine what you mean. And it's _going to_."

"What?"

"Grammar Nazi. Sorry."

Violet rolls her eyes at me and gestures at the no-longer-locked-but-still-definitely-off-limits door. "Shall we?"

Ominous warnings roll through my head. Detention, expulsion, and possible painful death pass before my eyes. For a moment I see McGonagall's eagle-gaze as clearly as though she were standing before me.

"Please."

I half-expect a roomful of glaring staff members, but when Violet pushes the door open, there's nothing. Just an empty, white-painted room with scuffed floorboards and no furniture. She sighs in disappointment and makes to shove the door shut again, but I put out a hand to halt her.

"Wait."

I take a few slow steps inside. Violet's impatience evaporates when she sees what's caught my eye. At the far end of the room, I crouch down to examine the floorboards. About fifteen feet from the back wall, the scratches begin: long, narrow grooves carved in rows, nearly an inch deep in the wooden boards. I run my fingers lightly along the marks, frowning. If I didn't know better, I'd say they were made by an enormous…

Wait a moment. _Wood?_

Who builds a wooden floor in a castle? It's utterly pointless. There must be stone just beneath.

Unless…

The closer I move to the back wall, the filthier the floor is. Long black hairs lie scattered in the dust. Carefully I pick one up; it's rather stiff, like a bristle, and nearly the length of my hand.

"Violet, you didn't shed this, did you?"

"Ha-ha."

The metal loop mounted in the wall is confirmation. The _stone_ wall, I note.

"Look at this, Vi. A large animal was chained here a long time ago. You'd know more about magical creatures than I would, but it's…" I drop to the floor and take a deep sniff. Continue, gagging:

"…most likely some sort of dog, going by the smell…You can see the scratches in the floor, deepest near the wall where he dragged his claws back. Must've been absolutely enormous…" I lose my train of thought for a moment, lost in contemplation of the huge claw marks. "He strained at the chain, trying to get at whoever came in the door. The metal loop in the wall pulled out a bit—the metal looks shinier there—and was reinforced with magic."

Vi stares. I'm starting to get used to it.

"That's actually pretty amazing."

"I…thanks." I shrug helplessly. "There's hair everywhere. It's not a particularly difficult conclusion to come to."

"Well, there's nothing exciting here beyond the facts that you're a genius and they keep large lethal animals chained up in Hogwarts. I guess I have some incentive to do my history homework now. Should we get back to the common room?"

I'm still gazing thoughtfully at the wall.

"Annie? Let's get to bed. We can look up the dog in _Hogwarts, A History_. You like books, remember?"

"Wait. There's got to be something else."

"What?"

"Why this chamber, of all places? All the other rooms I've seen are made entirely of stone. Why chain up a dangerous animal in possibly the least sturdy room in the castle? Why build a room with a wooden floor? Why keep a giant dog around at all?"

"Umm…sentiment?"

I roll my eyes. "Use your head, Vi. Any sane person would chain Fido in the dungeons, where he couldn't get loose and eat anybody. It wasn't _that_ hard to get in here."

"What's your point?"

I scan the floor for a moment, until I spot what I'm looking for. "He must have been here for a reason, must have been guarding…this!" My fingers catch in a groove and I heave upwards on a trapdoor that, until a second ago, blended almost perfectly with the floor.

Nothing leaps out of the floor to eat us. My life is full of anticlimax. Violet approaches the hole with some trepidation and peers downward by the light of my wand.

"Nothing I can see. Just darkness. No, wait, move your wand back—further—I think there's some kind of plant."

I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I can't help feeling a bit disappointed.

"They set Fido to guard a _plant_? Bit of overkill, don't you think?"

Vi pulls back with her face set. "Depends on the plant."

I shut up. She has a point.


	5. Chapter 5

Flying class doesn't start until the third week of term. Violet is stuck in the hospital wing with the flu, cursing her bad luck. Sympathy doesn't stop me from shaking with excitement. I want so badly to fly.

"Andrea?"

"Andy! Andy, are you all right?"

Don't call me that, I try to tell them.

"Andy!"

I'm pulled to my feet. Shoulder hurts. Faces around me, all out of focus. Go away.

Once I'm on my feet they back off.

Further. Get away. I can't breathe.

The plain black robes of our flying instructor swarm into view.

"Andrea, are you hurt?"

The words float loud and direct through the haze of stares. I shake my head, and fight an urge to press a hand to my temple, which has started to throb for reasons that have nothing to do with hitting the grass. Professor Thomas isn't buying it; he saw how I fell. He inspects my shoulder briefly, and I cringe away.

"Hospital wing. Now."

It's just bruising, I think. Leave me alone.

I stumble in the direction of the castle. Professor Thomas trails behind me for a few steps, obviously wondering if I'm concussed. I feel his eyes on my back and consciously straighten my gait and ignore the fresh whispers breaking out behind me, hoping to forestall the inevitable...escort.

I make it halfway to the castle before rapid footfalls sound on the grass behind me. I grit my teeth. It's James Potter, the prat. Any teacher with a brain would have sent one of my own housemates.

Potter falls into step beside me. I'm vaguely surprised when he doesn't call me Andy.

"How's the shoulder, Annie?"

"My head's fine, thank you."

He's so easy to read. Hardly an advantage to the biggest troublemaker in school. Potter's words are careful now, his face concerned.

"Annie, I said…"

"I know what you said. That's not what you were asking. The shoulder's fine, just a bit bruised. Now you can run along and tell Coach Thomas that I didn't hit my head, I'm not concussed, and you're just itching to get on that broomstick again and don't need to waste your time shepherding me back to the castle."

"I'm not…"

"Don't lie to me, Potter. It doesn't work."

He pulls up short, grabbing my shoulder so I spin to face him. Dark brows drawn, indignant.

"What makes you think you're a waste of my time?"

"You hardly bothered to hide your confidence when class started," I recite. "You gave a little sigh when you saw your broomstick—hardly the sleek model you're used to—but it still leapt into your hand immediately. Your "gentle push" off the ground was more of a shove, but you leveled off straight away and Coach Thomas didn't reprimand you. Conclusion: you're well at home on a broomstick, and don't mind showing it off. So go back."

"I don't want to…"

"And then there's the trophy room."

"Trophy room?"

"Stumbled in there once, on the way to Charms. Half the more recent Quidditch trophies have the name Potter on them. James Potter, Harry Potter… it's a common name, but there are few enough wizarding families left. You're obviously wizard born, so balance of probability is you're related. Father or uncle and grandfather, judging by the dates."

I keep talking, letting the words pour and drown my thoughts. Potter is looking at me strangely now. I wish I knew why people keep doing that. My head hurts.

"They were Gryffindor too…said to run in families, isn't it?…whether genetics or family values is debatable…named for your grandfather…"

"Annie, I am not just going to leave you here."

We've reached the steps to the castle. The sun is starting to set; the rest of the class will be back within half an hour, and the whole school, those who care, will know by dinner. I stalk up the steps to the deserted entrance hall.

The moment the doors swing shut behind James, I wheel and point my wand at him.

I'd sooner be in the Forbidden Forest than the hospital wing right now, and anyone in the mood to force me had better know more curses than I do. That's nobody in first year.

"_What_ the—?"

The look on Potter's face is almost comical. He's itching to draw his own wand, but held back by the Gryffindor _chivalry_ the Sorting Hat so charmingly informed me I lack. After all, who curses an injured classmate who's obviously out of her mind?

"Wait five minutes and then walk back," I say evenly. "I'll get to the hospital wing on my own."

He makes one last effort. Why bother? I'm Slytherin, remember?

"Andrea, get a grip."

My head is pounding in earnest now.

"It really would be unwise to come further. You walked me to the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey saw to my shoulder, that's all there is to it. Now get out."

Potter turns, defeated, and makes his way back down the steps, actually hanging his head. He really does think I'm an idiot. I take a measured stroll down two corridors, pretending not to hear the pursuing feet, and then dodge into a supposedly dead-end classroom. In under a minute I've lost my shadow. And then my feet take over, and ten minutes later I'm sinking behind an unused desk in another abandoned classroom somewhere on the seventh floor. My eyes travel the twilit grey walls—can't possibly remember how I got here—but at least I'm alone now. Giving in to the ache and draining adrenaline, I drop my head and let the shaking creep back across my shoulders.

* * *

It's another day before Vi is out of the hospital wing. I'm grateful for that. Feigning cheerfulness is exhausting enough without my nosy friend around.

By the next night I'm steeled for the forced normalcy, the too-bright smiles. Slytherin common room is surprisingly cozy in the evening, and the crackling fire draws me in to the half-circle of seats around the hearth. My feet steer me to my usual armchair and the muted greetings of classmates. My head starts throbbing as soon as I sit down.

The conversation is all idle talk about other students. Who was caught dueling in the corridors. Who's asking who to the Yule ball, even though it's not for another three months. Who accidentally turned her hair green without any idea how to reverse it.

The fire is crackling and the air is too still and I'm deafened by everything they're not saying. I glance up when someone drops into the chair to my left.

"Are you okay?" Violet cuts right to the chase. Quietly. I should have visited her in the hospital wing but didn't. Madame Pomfrey knows I was supposed to show up but didn't. To Violet, it was a dead giveaway.

"Fine."

"I heard…"

"It wasn't even twenty feet, Vi. I'm fine, honest."

Violet's face is skeptical. I can't bear her concern. Suddenly I'm on my feet, halting the murmur of conversation. I ignore the upturned faces; my invitation is for one person only.

"I'm going out. Left one of my books on the _third floor_. Coming?"

She gets it. "Sure."

"Curfew is in ten minutes!" someone calls after us.

Vi and I are out the door without a backward glance.


	6. Chapter 6

"Erm…why are we here, again?"

"Because it was still a mystery when we left."

"As opposed to now…?"

"I've done some research since then." I pull a small hardbound book from my robe.

"_Perennials and Poisons,"_ Violet reads. "_Magical Plants of Northern Europe and Their Properties. _Brilliant."

"Thought it might come in useful."

"Erm, that was sarcasm, actually. Come on, why are you so hung up on this plant?"

"Why is it hidden beneath a trapdoor in a locked room?"

"Good question." Violet pretends to deliberate. "Maybe it likes to eat inquisitive first years."

I light my wand, sweeping it over the floor in the place I remember. "Some sort of vine, wasn't it? I have a few ideas—" I heave on the trapdoor, "—but I thought we'd be safer giving it a closer look."

Vi huffs in resignation and flips to the section on vines. "Right…color?"

"Hang on." Lying flat on the floor, I shine my wand down. Cautiously. For all I know, something is lying in wait to bite my hand off. For a moment I think I hear a slight slithering sound, but the room is still. In the dim light it appears rather small, and completely empty apart from the piled flora.

"Color—dark green. Almost black."

"Thickness?"

"Maybe…three centimetres?"

"Any movement?"

"Not that I can see, though I thought I heard…Hang on, yes." I wave my arm experimentally, nearly dropping my wand as the texture of the shadows changes. The vines are actually _moving_, shifting eerily away from the light. Shuddering, I scramble back a couple feet from the trapdoor. After a moment I remember how to speak in a level tone.

"You were right, Violet, they're not ordinary plants at all. They don't like the light, I think—they're contracting."

"Right, I think I've found it. The good news…not carnivorous."

"Lovely. What's the bad news?"

Violet's glance sends a chill through me. "They're known for throttling people alive."

I search my memory. "Devil's Snare? How do we stop it?"

She scans the book again, flips a page. I silently congratulate myself that if nothing else, this venture has finally prompted my friend to crack a book.

"It says…"

She doesn't get a chance to finish.

I'm half turned away from the trapdoor to talk to Violet, so the yank on my wrist comes without warning. For two of the most terrifying seconds of my life I tumble downward through empty air. My muscles barely have time to seize up before the impact is cushioned by piles of vines. I gasp and swallow at the same time, painfully. Nice, soft, murderous vines.

"_Annie!_"

Violet rushes to the hole, her face illuminated for a brief instant. I curse; my wand must've been knocked out of my hand, left on the dirty floorboards above my head.

"Get back!"

From here I can see that the creeping vines climb the walls of the chamber…and cling to the ceiling itself, in apparent defiance of gravity. With horror, I realize they're crawling toward the trapdoor opening, ten thousand times faster than any plant should be able to move. Invisible to Violet.

I lunge upward, but a dozen strands, invisible in the darkness, hold me down. One thick tendril is still curled tightly around my wrist.

"Get back, Vi, go get help—"

My warning comes too late.

I don't actually know who will kill us harder: the Devil's Snare, or the headmistress if we're found here. We have three options. Number one: fight the things off ourselves. Probably die. Number two: abandon hope and definitely die. Number three: call for help. None of the staff will hear. If they do, we'll be saved and then expelled.

Number three is not an option.

I need to straighten out my priorities.

Violet struggles nearby, already nearly as entangled as I am. The tightening vines across my chest restrict my breathing, but I speak as steadily as I can under the circumstances.

"Violet! Vi, stop struggling and _listen to me_."

She fights harder. Her outline is invisible in the darkness, but I can feel waves of panic rolling from her, hear in her breathing that she's holding back a scream.

"Violet!" More frantically.

I curse loudly, hoping to startle her out of her terror.

"VIOLET!"

Her thrashing is getting more and more violent.

Change tactics. Keep my voice calm. I have to make her understand. I make a wild grab for her wrist and miss.

"Violet! Think of the book, Vi. You were reading how to stop Devil's Snare. What did it say?"

Her voice is muffled sobbing. I imagine the tears streaming down her face, dripping into the damp that this hellish place thrives on. Is that how Devil's Snare survives? Off the tears and blood of its victims?

"Never…got…there…"

I curse myself for not reading the thing through myself before we came. I skimmed the pages, though, there's the slightest possibility that the crucial information is stored somewhere in my brain…

The vines cover me now almost to my neck. When I close my eyes and lie back, Violet clearly thinks I've succumbed. Her sobbing mingles now with screams.

"Andrea! Andrea, get up! ANNIE!"

I tune her out. Search desperately through the odd intersection of corridors in my mind. It's here; it's got to be here…

I swear that one of these days I will organize properly. The book is flung carelessly onto a pile in a corner. I seize it and flip through. Half the pages are blank, but words jump out at me.

_Swamp… grassland…predatory…medical utility…_

"ANNIE!"

_Light…defenses…poison…_

A vine is now creeping around my throat. In a moment it will start to pull, tightly…squeeze the tears out of me too…I have a sudden vision of the plants curling around my lifeless form, caressing my face, drawing nutrients from my…

Tears.

Damp.

I'm an idiot.

Dark and damp, the book said. _Light_, the book said.

It's obvious, so obvious…the vines tighten around my neck and I breathe in sharp gasps, forcing oxygen to my brain…the Devil's Snare barely responded to the feeble light of my wand, but _fire…_

Violet's voice quavers again through the darkness, growing weaker.

"Annie, please wake up, I swear…"

Block it out. The weight across my chest, the choking sobs of my friend, the dank, rotting smell, the clammy touch of Devil's Snare across my bare neck. Blink away the dark spots obscuring my vision. Why do people call them dark spots? They're lights, starbursts and lantern smears in the darkness, blossoming blue and purple and pale green…that's not right…

Light…fire…too damp…no wand…Violet still has hers…I think she does…

"Fire, Violet," I choke out. I can barely make out my voice in my own ears.

"Andrea?"

She can't hear. It's no use.

I'm left with no hope and no oxygen and no choice. So I close my eyes and let my magic well up inside, almost of its own accord. Pull it forward until I feel that almost-tingling sensation. That's the trick—to almost feel it.

Right now, however, my whole body is tingling in that getting-the-life-choked-out-of-you sort of way.

_Concentrate…_

I can't keep the magic in a single room in my mind. I tried once. It leaked out, leaked everywhere, _burning _instead of the usual delicate race through my veins. That was a bad day.

I change tactics, pulling inward instead of out. Almost immediately my numbing limbs tense, a little of the feeling coming back and with it, the familiar rush…

Then the switch, push the phantom sensation into reality.

Only it doesn't work. Too damp. No wand. I'm a catalyst without a wand, which is to say no catalyst at all. Or something. Apparently my sense of analogy requires oxygen to function. At any rate _ineffective, pointless, worthless_—and the flood of invective stops there, because the same can be said for my grasp of synonym. I need something…I forget…

Air, I think triumphantly. Only I can't get any. No, it was something else.

Energy.

Heat is energy. I try to recall where heat comes from.

Fire. No, because I don't have fire…for fire I need heat…

A spark. I can get a spark.

Anger works best.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: And the adventure continues...**

**I hope this isn't too rambling. "Oxygen-deprived" is an interesting POV to write from. **

* * *

The anger comes when called and, as always, expands without prompting.

The sought-after spurt of heat erupts through me all at once—it must have been lingering at the edge of consciousness all this time, I think, to come when called like an obedient dog. It's probably too late, though, because I can't taste oxygen anymore. There's nothing for it to feed off—maybe that's why the dog died—stupid, really, should have thought of that before…

But it's all right, because nothing really matters when I'm afloat this way. Gliding, drifting on gentle ocean waves—how did waves get down here? Triumph bursts through me. Water, yes. I wanted water, didn't I? Top of my class, Uncle John always said…

No. Not right. They both flicker across the walls, so I got confused. Water is Slytherin-green, and I need indigo. Fire. Pop. A split-second later I stop caring; if I ignore the pain in my chest the water is fine, it's a perfectly pleasant sensation, carrying me off into the darkness...

Maybe the squid is down here, too. My heart lurches painfully against my ribcage. It could be. I can feel it. Wrapping tentacles around me. Squeezing the breath out of me.

It would explain the sharp downward jolt.

And then…up again. The waves aren't gentle anymore. I can't breathe.

Never liked _down_. And up…up is merely a promise of _down_ again, later. The dimensions untangling and seething around me, and it's hard to think, which makes sense because thinking is never unidirectional, you can only go up for so long, and sometimes you don't survive the fall—

[Learned that the hard way]

And then the floating sensation has vanished, and I'm calling out, screaming for it to come back because there's only _gravity_ now, weakest of the forces, they say, but it wasn't weaker than _you_, was it, pathetic excuse for a…

"_Incendio_!"

My anger evaporates as flames erupt, replaced a split second later by a stab of pain as the tiniest trickle of air worms its way into my lungs. It's too strong, I know. I went too far, and the flames biting into the darkness will devour us both…

I try to remember how to care about that, contemplating the image of strangled and charred corpses that worms its way into my mind. An _image, _though, any image is something, indicative of some degree of brain function and therefore oxygen in the blood. I never knew that before, not on such a _personal _level… But next to me, Violet barely breathes, no longer struggles. Limp and still. Face charred black as her curls. No it isn't. Those are the spots. Black now, why are they black?

I blink away the smoke. Violet could be sleeping peacefully. The flames are lick closer to my eyes and I don't close them. The squid is still down here, somewhere. I can feel it.

Why did I start the fire? Death was fine the way it was.

My breath hisses outward. I won't draw it in again…the Devil's Snare has won anyway, the dark spots are winning…ha, they're dark again, dark against the flames, blotting them out. I try to close my eyes, to extinguish the flames properly, but I can't see anymore…

The heat doesn't stop…why doesn't the heat stop?

The vines loosen.

All around us the plant hisses and contracts, fleeing the spreading flame. After a moment I remember how to draw breath, and fresh, cold oxygen pours back into my veins.

Not cold. Warm. Too warm.

Nothing has changed except the sweetness of oxygen and the dizzying rush through my veins. The air is warm and smoky and it tastes too good. The fire will still flare up and swallow us both, or it will burn out in the cold dampness. I still can't decide which is worse.

Turns out I don't need to.

For the second time this evening I'm falling, watching the world go black.

* * *

When I come to, Violet is bent over me. There are tears tracking down her face. Don't cry now, I try to tell her, it's pointless to cry _now…_

Violet registers my blinking and her face crumples with shuddering relief. It's painful to watch. Throbbingly painful. Maybe that's the back of my head. I must have hit the ground hard.

"Annie, Annie, I didn't think you were going to wake up…"

Slowly, with Vi's help I pull my unresponsive limbs into sitting position. The vines, I remember. The vines were on fire, burning with the vile plasticky smell of something not meant to be burned. Does magic have a smell? I can't remember. I don't think so. The giant dog would know. It leaned over me, explaining everything in an exhale of slobbery breath, while I took careful notes in an old schoolbook, and the squid laid a damp tentacle on my forehead to test my temperature. I worry, though. All that drool, the pages will be ruined, and if the pages are ruined I won't remember, will never understand…

Nonsense. My head is full of utter nonsense. Resting my head between my knees, I work backwards through my memories, weeding out the least likely. Only apparent explanation is…

"We dropped through the floor?"

She nods, letting out a quavering breath. Coming back to herself again. "I think so. It must be designed—I don't know how you got us out of there."

"Fire." I still don't have breath to waste.

She gapes at me. "Brilliant."

"Lucky guess." I roll onto my back.

Ten minutes of silence, collapsed together on the cold floor—_stone_—, while Violet hacks to rid her lungs of smoke. I don't have the energy to sit back up, let alone cough, so I stare up at the ceiling, glaring suspiciously at a lifelessly few dangling vines. From down here they are oddly inanimate. Enchanted, I guess, by whoever designed this network of rooms. Whoever hid away something valuable enough to merit protection by means of murderous vegetation and a giant canine.

The vines themselves appear to make up the ceiling, woven and twisted haphazardly together. Through small gaps I watch the glow of flames die down, letting the smoke filter slowly out of my lungs. Finally I drag myself to a technically upright position and wipe the sting from my eyes.

There is a passage to the left, gaping empty and dark as a skull's empty sockets.

"I've no idea how we're going to get back up, so…onward?"

Violet, who has regained her composure with admirable rapidity, nods and helps me up.

"Lead the way, good lady."


End file.
